


traces of flour

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [22]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Softness, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Snake Crowley, Spying, another lockdown fic, cake (lots of it), indoor activity, quarantine omens, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23996014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: All Crowley wanted was to sneak into the bookshop and check up on Aziraphale. But it’s never that simple, is it?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 55
Kudos: 279
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Следы муки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25330315) by [fandom Nastoyashee Sveklo 2020 (WTF_Nastoyashee_Sveklo_2020)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Nastoyashee_Sveklo_2020/pseuds/fandom%20Nastoyashee%20Sveklo%202020), [Fannni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fannni/pseuds/Fannni)



Crowley knew it wasn’t wise for a human, or a human-shared creature, to be outdoors right now. Luckily, the lockdown rules didn’t apply to intelligent reptiles.

When he told Aziraphale he could slither on over to the bookshop, he really did mean slither. How else was he going to get there without being stopped on the street and questioned by everyone from a local copper to a busybody mum venturing out to do some essential shopping, and taking it upon herself to tell off everyone else she thought to be loitering around? Not to mention, the Bentley was conspicuous. It made noise. And Crowley...did not want to be seen at all.

Especially not by his angel.

 _The point,_ he told himself as he snuck into a gutter and up the roof of an old greengrocer’s, _the point is to **watch Aziraphale.**_ Just because he was going to watch Aziraphale didn’t mean Aziraphale had to see him— he had, after all, just told Crowley to stay at home. That was what his angel did, he stuck by the rules and kept Crowley at an arms’ length and expected him to keep busy in some other way. _But I can’t keep busy,_ Crowley thought irritably, his tongue flicking out as he snaked along the downpipe just above the front bookshop window. _Not right now when there aren’t many people to bother._ And taking down the phone signal at a time like this, when so many humans relied on the contact for their work, or to check up on loved ones, or to stay updated with news...come on. Crowley was a demon, but even he had standards.

He wasn’t going to deny that he’d adopted the concept of standards in the first place from a certain fussy angel.

Right. Down the pipe, through the slightly-open window, into the shop. Smooth scales sliding along the dusty surface of an old desk, slipping between worn old bookcovers. Crowley dropped onto the carpet and, taking care to crawl beneath armchairs and shelves, made his way to the kitchen.

The bookshop smelled distinct and comforting. Crowley flicked his tongue in and out to taste the scents mingling— old paper and dust mites, wood and leather, different kinds of tea. Different kinds of baking ingredients, too, the closer he got to the kitchen. Never without anything to nibble, that angel. With all their favourite places closed for the time being, he’d taken matters into his own hands and actually taught himself how to bake. Crowley tasted flour and cinnamon in the air, sugar and vanilla and chocolate. Soon enough Aziraphale came into view, carrying a fresh confection from the oven. He found a warm spot behind the refrigerator— funny how something meant to keep things cold generated so much heat in the back— and stuck his head out, in shadow, to watch the angel.

This was exactly what he wanted, a hidden place from which to observe Aziraphale. _Just for a little while,_ he told himself. Just to show himself that it was okay, here he was, no harm had come to him when those boys broke into the back of the shop, and of course Aziraphale knew what he was doing, baking all these cakes. Crowley was pleased to see he’d become rather expert at it. The cake looked lovely, cooling golden-brown and perfect on the kitchen counter, and he watched as Aziraphale iced it carefully with a layer of strawberry icing. His plump, sturdy hands turned the cake gently to spread the icing around evenly and smoothly. Crowley watched, transfixed. He remembered Aziraphale rebuilding the broken section of wall around Eden. He remembered the angel pushing heavy equipment and parts away from crushing unsuspecting workers, everywhere from the site of the Tower of Babel to the completion of the Pyramids to the building of the Big Ben itself. Aziraphale was strong, no doubt about it, much stronger than he looked, and those hands were trained to use a sword in battle. But instead he chose to use them to mend books, and hold chopsticks for sushi, and bake cakes. To create, not destroy.

 _Aziraphale,_ Crowley thought fondly, _is really something else._

He watched Aziraphale lick icing off the tips of his fingers, the tiny pink tongue darting out daintily to scrape off the sweetness. Crowley’s jaw dropped. He managed to catch himself before it unhinged entirely. Now why was the sight of a little harmless angel tongue suddenly flustering him so, sending a rush of heat through his cold-blooded veins? Aziraphale had finished icing the cake, and was now clearing up— practically, not with the convenient snap of a finger, and those hands were at work again, applying themselves to the delicate and domestic. He moved around and hummed a song; Crowley strained to catch the tune. He loved the way flour had found its way onto Aziraphale’s blond curls, little puffs of it falling off when Aziraphale moved his head. He loved the way it streaked carelessly on the light blue apron he wore, among all the marks of oil and chocolate and— was that oven grease?

Why was this so endearing? It meant Aziraphale was a sloppy cook, that was all. And yet, as Crowley eyed the cake with interest, you couldn’t deny it paid off...

He stretched out just a little bit, angling his head in Aziraphale’s direction. What was that he was humming?

Oh, dear Someone.

It was Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga.’

So all those car rides in the Bentley had rubbed off on Aziraphale, after all! Crowley just about died. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically enough to slide off his perch and tumble in a slithering heap onto the counter below—

The soft thump made Aziraphale look up. When he turned around he caught sight of the tip of a tail vanishing into a cupboard. Crowley slipped into the musty darkness, curled around the single stack of bowls kept therein (oh, he remembered these ones, he and Aziraphale used to eat ice cream out of them) and waited for Aziraphale to leave.

There was no describing his terror when the cupboard door opened.

“What the— Crowley!”

Crowley reared up and hissed. Any other being would have jumped backward at least three feet and screamed. Not the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, though. In fact he glared, and rather glarefully at that, and physically yanked Crowley out of the cupboard without upsetting a single bowl.

Crowley writhed in protest as he was deposited in a coil on the kitchen counter. Aziraphale stepped back to give him room as he shifted back into his human form. Soon a lanky red-haired male figure was sitting on the edge of the counter, and he hopped off with a little bounce.

“Hi, Angel.”

Aziraphale put his hands on his hips sternly. “Crowley, what on Earth are you doing here? I thought I told you not to leave your flat, you know there are rules in place!”

“Oh, come on Aziraphale, nobody saw me! And it’s like you said, I can’t get ill or— or infect anyone else— I was a snake the whole time, it was fine!”

“I thought you were going to take a nap.” Despite the clear annoyance in his voice, there was a hint of relief. Of fondness, maybe.

“I...” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. He shrugged, “I wanted to check up on you, first.”

“Check up on me?” wailed Aziraphale. “You looked like you were spying on me.”

“Well, checking up, spying, same thing, innit?”

Aziraphale looked him up and down. He pursed his lips, but not in a disappointed way— more like, in the way he did when he got far enough into a mystery novel to surmise who the killer might be. And Crowley paused, waiting, for the inevitable, because that’s what Aziraphale did, he stuck by the rules and kept Crowley at an arms’ length and sent him off to keep busy in some other way.

But Aziraphale just sighed, and said “You don’t want to be alone, do you?”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nope.” Damn, his hands really did not fit in those pockets, did they? That’s what he got for wearing jeans found in the women’s section.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Neither do I, really.” 

Crowley looked up at him, peering over the top of his glasses.

“Oh, but this _is_ against the rules.”

“You and I aren’t in any actual risk,” Crowley replied. “It’s like I always say. Nobody has to know.”

Now this felt more familiar. Sometimes Aziraphale could be steadfast to the point of stubbornness, but all it took was a little gentle nudging from Crowley, a glimpse at a perspective Aziraphale hadn’t considered before, and he’d unravel.

“Well, I suppose,” he finally ventured, “since you’re here, you might as well...”

“Yeah?” Crowley said, perhaps too eagerly.

“Stay,” Aziraphale finished. He gestured at the freshly-iced cake. “As you can see, there’s plenty for me to share.”

Crowley noticed the plates of half-sliced cake stacked on every surface of the sitting room beyond the kitchen, as if Aziraphale had gotten through each one before getting bored andmaking another. Only a miracle could keep them all from going stale. And they still looked delicious, Crowley was not a big eater, but he had meant to stuff himself before taking that long nap, you know, as snakes did...

He turned back to Aziraphale, who was blinking those pretty (pretty? Seriously?) eyes expectantly at him.

Crowley shrugged. “Sure.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Hunkering down at Aziraphale’s, with entirely too much cake and copious amounts of wine, turned out to be a very dangerous game indeed. The sugar and carbs made Crowley feel full, and on the edge of sleepy, and he sat on the couch next to Aziraphale in warm, happy, cozy companionship as the angel prattled away about the process for making Bundt cake. God, Someone, he could listen to Aziraphale’s voice all day. Much better than over the phone, Crowley thought contentedly, as he curled in toward Aziraphale and tried to resist the urge to fling one arm over him.

“Heh,” he chuckled, when Aziraphale paused in his chatter. He rolled his eyes.

“What, Crowley?”

“Nothing. You’ve just gone all red, is all.” Without thinking Crowley reached out with a finger to tickle Aziraphale’s flushed cheek. Aziraphale leaned away to avoid him.

 _Oh_. Crowley stopped, drawing his hand back. That _did_ make Aziraphale uncomfortable, didn’t it? What was he thinking? 

_Stop that, Crowley. You’re too much, too fast. Keep your hands to yourself the way you should have kept your questions._

“Gotta admit this is much better than lurking in your cupboard,” he said abruptly. Master of steering them out of awkward waters, Crowley was. Master of sailing them into those waters in the first place, but he’d had plenty of practice by now.

Aziraphale chuckled. “How long were you slinking about my kitchen, anyway?”

“Nnngghh, dunno...long enough to hear you humming.” He quirked those sharp eyebrows at Aziraphale, who seemed to grow redder.

“Oh, goodness—“

“Heard you,” Crowley teased. He started humming the melody, and Aziraphale had to hold back a laugh.

“Alright, you got me. Of course I would get that ridiculous bebop stuck in my head, it’s all you ever play in that car.”

“It’s all that car ever plays,” Crowley corrected him. “C’mon, Angel. Let me hear you.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were bright as stars. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would want to hear him sing— after all, he had been assigned to Earth and not to a heavenly choir for a reason. “I don’t know all the words,” he said primly. “That was why I was just humming. I recalled the- the melody, but it’s the actually lyrics that...escape me.” He trailed off as he noticed Crowley’s gaze sauntering vaguely down to— what was he looking at? Aziraphale’s chin? His lips?

“M-more cake?” he managed, in a soft voice.

Crowley gulped, and looked up at Aziraphale with what seemed to be more effort than was usually required by a flick of the eyeballs. “‘Course.” He cleared his throat as he sat upright.

Aziraphale passed him a plate and Crowley cut himself a slice. Now it was the angel’s turn to watch the demon’s lips as they wrapped delicately around the prongs of a fork, that agile, slightly barbed tongue licking every streak of ganache off, clearly not wanting to miss a single morsel. It fascinated him. Crowley almost never ate— when he did he swallowed things whole and with gusto, like a snake, and digested them like one, too. Unlike Aziraphale, he didn’t care about relishing every bite. Until now.

Either that cake was very good, or Crowley was very hungry. 

“Mmm,” he said, licking his lips (and there was the flickering flash of tongue, passably human before becoming snakelike again.) “You got really good at this, didn't you?” 

A glowing drop of praise, a gleam of genuine admiration in Crowley’s amber eyes, and Aziraphale felt himself light up with pleasure. “I’m glad you liked it.”

 _This,_ he found himself thinking, as Crowley raised tentative eyebrows at Aziraphale, as if seeking permission to have another slice. _This is what I want._ _What I’ve always wanted._ The walls of a quiet bookshop enclosing the pair of them within its walls and shelves, stacks of cake all around them, Crowley sitting next to him— sunglasses off, hair tousled, skin flushed, wolfing down the cake that he had baked, safe and comfortable and present. Yes, having him here was certainly against the rules, but you couldn’t expect Aziraphale to worry about that now and watch Crowley at the same time...

Being with Crowley, he remembered, always made it seem like his worries were far away.

And then they’d be replaced with a whole different set of worries, like when Crowley did ridiculous things such as glue coins to the sidewalk or swap street signs or piss on electric fences (“Ooh Angel! That tickles! You should try it!!!”)

Anyway, it was better this way. Neither of them would have to wait for July.

“Let me get that for you,” Crowley exclaimed, noticing Aziraphale reach for an already-empty bottle. A wave of his hand and two new ones appeared on the coffee table.

“Ah, yes— thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Where are— where are you getting these?” 

“Little winery in France. Nobody’ll miss ‘em,” the demon said blithely. “By the way, where are you getting all this baking stuff?”

Aziraphale shrugged, “Well, all over, I suppose. Wherever I can. You know how it is. Just...reach out with a miracle and you pull out what you need from- from somewhere else...what?” he said irritably, noticing Crowley looking at him again. This time he seemed concerned and a little surprised.

“Angel?” he said flatly. “You know there’s a flour shortage...everywhere?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “No.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, good Heavens—“ Aziraphale looked wildly around at his confections. “I had no idea. No idea! I haven’t been out of the house in weeks.”

Crowley could barely hold back his laughter. “It’s you, isn’t it! You’re the bloody reason people can’t find a bag of flour anywhere— oh, this is so good.” He rolled over on the couch, laughing his heart out, and Aziraphale had to duck a pair of flailing, skinny-jeans-clad legs as Crowley writhed about in mirth. He couldn’t help but laugh, himself.

“But I— Crowley, stop it, this is serious— I do hope— stop laughing, you silly snake!— I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“Just an ordinary cock-up, Aziraphale,” chuckled Crowley gently, rolling onto his belly. He was close enough to rest his chin on the angel’s soft, plump thigh. “You could never do the wrong thing, remember? Should probably stop though,” he mused. “Plenty of cake. And it doesn’t go bad, anyway.”

“Well, certainly, but then I’d run out of things to do,” Aziraphale said logically. And despite his best intentions, his hand came down to rest in Crowley’s russet hair. The demon didn’t shirk away, but his pupils dilated just a tiny bit. “As you can see, baking kept me quite busy, when I wasn’t reading.”

“Then we’ll find something else to do,” mumbled Crowley, not taking his eyes off Aziraphale. He folded his arms under his head like a pillow, so he could keep looking up at his friend. “Keep ourselves busy.”

“I suppose we could.” Aziraphale began to stroke Crowley’s hair, the short tufts on the back of his head. Is this all right? Certainly Crowley would tell me if it wasn’t.

He’d always wanted to be gentle and affectionate with Crowley. After all, Hell was in scarce supply of both of those things, and if anyone deserved gentleness, it was his reckless sharp-edged demon.

Crowley blinked at him, and Aziraphale was reminded of wild, raw honey. “What is it?” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley yawned.

“Had too much cake,” he smirked, eyelashes fluttering. “I think I’m gonna— I think I might just—“

“Oh, of course, dear.”

“Right here?” Crowley mumbled. “Take a nap right here? Is that ok?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Great.”

And he plopped his cheek down on Aziraphale’s thigh and promptly went to sleep.

The room seemed to spin. Crowley was here, all right, social distancing be damned, and fast asleep in his lap. When Aziraphale had agreed to ‘ _here_ ’ he’d meant ‘ _here on this couch_ ,’ not—

Oh, bugger it.

“Well,” he sighed, allowing himself to continue stroking Crowley’s hair. “Better in here than out there, obviously.”

* * *

It was Aziraphale’s delight and relief when Crowley woke, not two months later as he’d originally planned in their phone conversation, but three hours later, as the sun was going down. Aziraphale hadn’t moved a muscle, instead reaching for whatever book and cake happened to be nearby. He finished a long lovely collection of poetry and the last of the chocolate cake, occasionally putting his fork down to place his hand on Crowley’s hair again. He loved to brush his thumb against the tufts just behind his ear, a gesture that he soon found to be very comforting.

It was quite lucky that he’d stopped before Crowley awoke, muttering and blinking sleepily. He’d looked up at Aziraphale as if hardly able to believe he’d just fallen asleep on him. Then he’d asked, irritably, for a glass of water.

Aziraphale was pleased to fetch him one.

It was nice taking care of Crowley, a much better alternative than having him sleep the rest of the lockdown period while Aziraphale himself rattled about in the bookshop. Now they could both rattle together, although Crowley rattled considerably louder. After he’d had some water in him, and a little more cake, Crowley occupied himself with stretching, and then— well, Aziraphale took his eyes off him for just a few minutes while he miracled back the packs of flour he’d amassed the last few weeks, and when he came back to the main bookshop Crowley was nowhere to be seen, although the sound of footsteps on the second floor indicated he was stretching his legs.

He wasn’t like Aziraphale, who remained serene and sedentary and able to to pour the patience and focus necessary into doing one thing for a long time; Crowley was restless, easily bored and easily distracted. Aziraphale sat down and tried to read, like a test to see if he could still focus while Crowley puttered about the shop. For the most part, he was successful. Occasionally Crowley would yell down at Aziraphale, to ask a question about the neighbours, or a piece of art the angel had on the wall or where on Earth he got all these winged mugs, and Aziraphale would yell the answer.

It was some time before Crowley sauntered down the spiral staircase.

“You don’t seem quite settled, dear.” Aziraphale said, not taking his eyes off his book.

Crowley visibly squirmed. “Bored, Angel. Transcendentally bored. How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sit there. Read.”

“Decades of practice and an aversion to doing nearly anything else.” Aziraphale peered at him over his tiny round glasses. “I don’t suppose you want to try it?” Crowley responded by sticking his tongue out distastefully. “Very well. Maybe I could trouble you to help me with a bit of tidying up.”

Crowley perked up at that— not at the thought of tidying, no, the demon was highly opposed to concept of tidying,* but at the thought of actually doing something. Maybe, Aziraphale tried not to think, the thought of doing something with _him_.

So Aziraphale left his armchair and led Crowley through the bookshop, and let him help with the delicate job of setting it to rights— re-shelving and rearranging, dusting and stacking. He seemed pleased to be doing something practically for once instead of miracling everything into a state of order. But lending Aziraphale his assistance turned out to be just as dangerous of a game as drinking on the couch with him was. Crowley was now in close proximity to Aziraphale’s hands, the very same hands he couldn’t take his eyes off in the kitchen. So strange how Aziraphale had always had them and yet only now, after they’d thwarted Armageddon, was Crowley really admiring them. For the work that had to be done, Aziraphale even pushed his sleeves up to the elbow, exposing soft white skin over sturdy muscle. Crowley wondered what that would feel like against his lips.

Here he was, leading himself to temptation. No point in delivering him from evil. He was already there.

Aziraphale stood by with an armful of encyclopaedias, merrily chattering to Crowley about how he had come to acquire them, while Crowley, being taller, teetered on a footstool and stacked them one by one on the upper shelves for him.

“Why D’you keep things in places you can’t reach?” He groused.

“Usually I can miracle them off the shelves, which is why the shop can fall into such disarray, because summoning them is often trickier than putting them back... and I do forget most of the time,” Aziraphale chuckled. “But these are precious first editions, so delicate and fragile. It won’t do to have any random customer pull them off at whim. What ifthey damage it?”

“Summoning them’s harder than putting ‘em back?” Crowley echoed, sliding the last book onto the shelf. “Sounds like demons.”

“You were never difficult to get rid of,” said Aziraphale, and then, “It was making you stick around that I had a hard time with.”

Crowley stepped down from the stool, and when he looked up he found he was standing much closer to Aziraphale than he’d intended. Closer, certainly, than was permitted between two people who might risk infecting each other. And he— fuck it, he was looking at Aziraphale’s lips again. _Look away, Crowley._ Instead he found himself gazing into Aziraphale’s eyes. _What colour is that? I don’t have the words. Angel colour. Aziraphale colour?_

He watched the corners crease and crinkle just a little bit as a small, awkward smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “Always on the move, you are,” the angel said softly.

Crowley allowed himself to inhale, an unnecessary breath filling his lungs. “What does that mean?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Only that I- I didn’t get to spend nearly as much time with you as I liked.”

Crowley moved away, breaking the thick tension that ran between them with a smirk. “You might’ve got more than you bargained for, Angel. You sure you want to ride the rest of this out with me?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the last six thousand years, dear boy, it’s that it will never do to go through hard times alone.”

“Hm. Give it a week and you’ll be sick of me.”

Crowley’s low, almost growling tone stoked a low fire in Aziraphale’s belly. “Annoyed, perhaps. Aggravated and made furious, I don’t doubt it.” He dusted his hands. “But never sick of you.” He half-turned, an invitation for Crowley to follow him out. “How do you feel about finishing the rest of the wine?”

“Sure, okay,” Crowley said.

He noticed Aziraphale did not roll his sleeves back down.

*It is a misconception that Crowley is a tidy person, given the immaculate state he keeps his flat in. Well, when one doesn’t happen to have a great deal of personal belongings, one’s home appears to be tidy. If Crowley had found something worth collecting as Aziraphale had, his place would be a right pigsty, too.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sun’s going down, Angel. Last chance to get rid of me.”

“Certainly not. Best to keep you and your wiles in here, away from the innocent humans of the world.”

“Oh, so this is a good deed of yours, then?” chuckled Crowley. He was lying on his back on the sofa, legs slung over the backrest and head hanging down over the edge. He wondered how long he’d be able to last with all the blood rushing to his brain like this.

“The most effective way to spent time with an old friend, while also thwarting him before he has a chance to cause any real trouble.” Aziraphale was rummaging inside an antique chest. He emerged with an old chess set. “Shall we play?”

To Crowley’s dawning horror, Aziraphale actually had a great many old board games in that old chest, and in the interest of keeping them both busy, actually intended to play all of them. Well, for them it was less ‘playing’ and more trying to remember or figure out the rules, and bickering over which versions of the rules to follow while slogging through a rather uninspired game of chess. (Crowley took the white pieces and Aziraphale took the black ones, just to shake things up.) Then Crowley tried to teach Aziraphale poker, which the angel had little patience for, and then they tried Scrabble, which really should have been renamed Squabble as it led to even _more_ bickering (“‘Shookdt’? ‘Shookdt’ is not a word, Crowley!”) In the end, they decided to abandon all attempts at structured activity and resorted to quiet companionship— Aziraphale reading, and Crowley scrolling on his phone.

On the outside it seemed harmless, but Crowley knew it was a precarious situation. He was now effectively stuck here for Somebody knew how long, and he knew that spending so much time with Aziraphale brought about a lot— _a lot_ — of complicated, feelings that he, a demon, had no business having. The way Aziraphale treated him, despite everything he said about them being on opposite sides, only encouraged the tenderness blooming in his chest like a vine that insisted on growing no matter how many times you told it there wasn’t any room. If Crowley was ever going soft, he knew who was to blame for it...but was it so bad?

Soft meant comfort, and affection. It meant trust, and kind, sweet things. It meant letting yourself be looked after. If Aziraphale could be all those things to him— and he had, in a way, all these years— then maybe Crowley could stand to go a little bit soft. Perhaps then he’d have a hope of being good enough for Aziraphale.   
  


* * *

  
There were enough ingredients in the kitchen for Aziraphale to make a simple chocolate cake, possibly the last one he would bake in lockdown. And then he and Crowley would eat it, along with all the other cakes left over. Perhaps, he thought wistfully as he measured flour and baking soda, they might even order take-out once they ran out. There was a Japanese restaurant round the corner that was still open for delivery, and he’d see to it that the delivery person was tipped generously. Perhaps he could inveigle Crowley into another game of Scrabble. He might even read the demon a book. If not a book, then a short story. Perhaps ‘The Gift’ by Ray Bradbury. Crowley would like that. 

He looked up from mixing the batter, and noticed Crowley leaning on the doorway, one arm propping him against the frame at a relaxed angle. 

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale greeted. “Would you like to help?”

“What is it?”

“Chocolate cake. A very simple recipe.”

Crowley slunk around the counter, picking up bottles and packets and sniffing the contents. “Can I add some chilli?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Don’t be silly.”

“Don’t be ‘chilli’?”

He grinned when Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Fine, not chilli then. What about cardamom? Or sesame, thyme, parsley, onion powder, dash of lemon zest?” Crowley took a pinch of flour and puffed it at Aziraphale.

“Stop that, you incorrigible menace!” But he was laughing.

“Shan’t help you if I can’t add any chilli.” 

“Fine, then. Try this instead.” Aziraphale handed the mixing spoon to Crowley, who stared at it.

“You lick it off,” Aziraphale explained patiently.

“I What?”

“It’s good!” said Aziraphale. “I think there’s some thing delightfully mischievous about eating something before it’s cooked. Humans love it. Try it.”

“Well,” mumbled Crowley. “If it is, as you say, _mischievous_.”

That was a bad idea. Not because it would give them stomachaches or salmonella, but for a good long while Aziraphale found himself the captive audience to Crowley’s tongue again, the clever, almost sinful way it seemed to wrap around the bowl of the spoon and then dart back in between his lips, lathed with chocolate. He tore himself away from watching Crowley and set about pouring the batter into a round baking pan.

“Ooh, that‘s not bad,” remarked Crowley. He smacked his lips, and the sound sent a thrill through Aziraphale’s body. Crowley hopped up on a clear section of the counter and cleaned the rest of the batter off the spoon with one lick— and the gymnastics performed by his wicked, barbed tongue nearly knocked Aziraphale off his feet. (A perfect 10, in his opinion.) But Aziraphale merely smiled at him, put the cake in the oven, and started cleaning up.

He was aware of Crowley’s yellow eyes fixed on him the whole time. Aziraphale moved rather self-consciously, unsure of what exactly about him was worth watching so intently. Often he’d noticed the demon looking at him in a curious manner, as if Aziraphale was an inscrutable natural phenomenon that not even Crowley had the questions for which to understand. Aziraphale had never been sure of what Crowley would do next if he were to finally figure it out. What if he found Aziraphale lacking? What if he wasn’t cool enough, or quick enough, or patient enough?

His anxiety poured itself into yearning. Crowley was right there, sitting with long legs hanging over the edge of the countertop, the toes of his snakeskin boots skimming the floor. There was a smudge of batter, still left on a dimple on his cheek. _He should wipe that off,_ Aziraphale thought, and suddenly imagined wiping the smudge off for him. Imagined _kissing_ it off, soft lips brushing the faint stubble on Crowley’s skin, then Crowley’s own lips, which would still bear sweet traces raw cake mix. He imagined, in spite of himself, gripping Crowley’s hips tight as the demon sat on the counter, slotting himself between his legs, feeling them encircle his waist like the coils of a snake. Crowley’s hands in Aziraphale’s hair, his lips just as hungry as the angel’s—

“—mind if I play some music?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. The tap was running, the sink had turned into a small, shallow swimming pool, and all the baking things were clean. Crowley had hopped off the counter and was standing at the door again, holding his phone up. Aziraphale shook his head, cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes.”

“Yes, you do mind?”

“No. I mean, yes, I mean no. I don’t mind.” He gave the demon what he hoped was a convincing smile. 

Crowley blinked. “Er, okay. Are you all right? You really zoned off there.”

“I got carried away,” was all Aziraphale said. “Lost in thought.”

“What were you thinking about?”

A long pause. Then— “The...the fourteenth century?” 

Crowley made a face. “Eugh. Well, I’ll be out here.”

He sauntered into the sitting room, and Aziraphale suddenly found the need to breathe a deep, heavy breath.

Kissing Crowley! Not just kissing, but full-on _making out_. Aziraphale felt ridiculous for even imagining it. He turned and focused his attention on the cake baking in the oven. Letting Crowley stay had been a good idea in principle, but he didn’t account for these feelings to be so...persistent. He should have known better.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Good times for a change_

_See the luck I’ve had can make a good man turn bad_

_So please, please, please_

_Let me, let me, let me,_

_Let me get what I want_

_This time”_

“Oh, it’s your sad bebop,” Crowley heard Aziraphale say, when the angel emerged from the kitchen.

“It’s not— oh whatever,” sighed Crowley. He was playing the music from his phone, but it came out of the speaker on Aziraphale’s record player. The old thing bloomed like a sedate, bronze flower that spread sound instead of pollen. Crowley flopped down on the couch while Aziraphale moved some things around to make room for the new cake that would be done soon.

“You know, Crowley,” he said, keeping his face turned away, “I thought it might be, since we’ve nowhere else to go for the time being, and seeing as we are locked down here, just the two of us, maybe it would be about time we—“

 _We what?_ Crowley sat up slowly, anticipating.

“— learned to...to dance.” He finally looked at the demon with an eager smile. “We have plenty of time. And most dances, I’m told, only need two participants.”

Crowley’s mouth made a few unintelligible shapes before proper words actually came out. “Er, I suppose we could. I’d be pretty hopeless. Demons, uh, practically invented bad dancing.”

“And humanity has suffered for it appropriately. Thank you for your service.”

That made Crowley laugh. “Your side is _not_ going to like that. Us, dancing.”

“They’re not watching anymore, remember? At least, they ought not be.”

Aziraphale’s bold answer lit a hopeful spark in Crowley’s chest. They sat together on the sofa, close enough so that if they were to place their hands in the space between them, their fingertips would touch. Crowley considered that, but he also saw Aziraphale uncork another bottle of white wine and fill two glasses, and decided to wait.

“I do miss the Gavotte,” Aziraphale lamented, passing a wineglass to Crowley. “Such a shame that it went out of fashion.”

“You could always find something new to learn,” Crowley said helpfully. “I could tempt you with the Inchworm. Or the Running Man. Or a proper Harlem Shake.”

“And I could staunchly resist and try to thwart you.”

“A dance-off between good and evil! Never seen that before.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Oh my dear, how many times do I have to tell you that you’re not evil?”

“I’m a demon, it’s exactly what I am!”

“Poppycock,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’ve yet to meet a kinder, sweeter, _nicer_ person than yourself.”

“Hey!” sputtered Crowley. Before he knew it he’d grabbed Aziraphale’s lapels, yanking him close. He pushed his face to the angel’s and said threateningly, “What did I tell you about calling me—“

“ _Crowley_ ,” said Aziraphale, without a trace of fear in his voice, and he flicked his eyes over toward the coffee table where Crowley’s long legs had knocked over both wine glasses. The pale liquor sloshed out and onto the carpet. Crowley let go, allowing Aziraphale to straighten his bowtie.

“Really, my dear?” He sighed.

“S-sorry. Got carried away.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. He really hoped Aziraphale wouldn't notice how flushed he had gotten. _Carried away_ was right. Carried away with how close he was to Aziraphale, how easy he felt underneath his hands. And even if he’d done nothing more, there was no stopping the flood of thoughts that crashed through his rare demon’s imagination: pinning Aziraphale down again, breathing his sweet breath, letting those strong hands clutch at his waist. The pair them becoming a tangle of limbs and dark and light fabric as Crowley pressed their lips together, ravenous and selfish...the burning he might feel in his fingertips if he sank them into the softness of Aziraphale’s thigh...

_(So please, please please,_

_Let me get what I want_

_Let me get what I want_

_This time_

_Lord knows, it would be the first time...)_

“Crowley, there’s nothing to be ashamed about if you’re all of those things!” Aziraphale said. Oh good, he was still talking. He didn’t notice that Crowley had gone into a rather embarrassing sexual fantasy. With growing dread Crowley realised those soft feelings weren’t the only things taking root in his soul. Raw desire had been creeping its tendrils over him since the moment he’d slithered into the kitchen. Perhaps even before that, since the moment he’d met Aziraphale.

“I’m not, okay? I’m not supposed to be—“

“But you are. You’re no longer of Hell, my dear. Certainly you can let yourself embrace the goodness that’s been in you all along.”

Crowley lurched to his feet with a strangled “Ngk.” He picked up the wine glasses; one of them had a broken stem and the other was half-smashed in. “Oh, that’s not cool. Let me handle this. I’m sorry, Angel— leave it with me— I’ll go get us some—“

“I can miracle this mess away,” Aziraphale protested. 

“N-no, don’t waste a miracle on my s-stupid mistake.” Crowley grabbed a wad of newspaper and used it to pick up the broken glass. Without waiting for Aziraphale to say anything else he hastened toward the kitchen for replacements. 

_Oh dear,_ Aziraphale thought, as he watched him go. Crowley was going to find reasons to be guilty, and reasons for Aziraphale to hate him...only Aziraphale never would, how could he? And Crowley would put all these reasons together and decide it was best to go away, and he’d leave Aziraphale all alone in a bookshop that would be colder without him, and he’d be all alone himself in his sparse, silent apartment, and nobody would look after him. Nobody would keep him warm when he napped or stroke his hair to soothe him, and nobody would get him a glass of water when he woke up.

 _Oh dear,_ thought Aziraphale anxiously, _this won’t do at all._ He had to stop Crowley— convince him to stay—

He was at the kitchen doorway in a matter of minutes. Crowley had had the good sense to miracle the broken glasses away after all, and was rummaging around for new ones. Aziraphale knew what this was about. His demon was punishing himself by doing this as practically as he could. He turned around clutching new glasses, looking considerably more relieved.

“Been thinking, Aziraphale,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. “I should probably go, yeah? You know, I take up space, I make noise, I’m annoying...better off alone, I am. And so are you. Plenty of time to read. No need to worry about keeping me entertained.” He gave Aziraphale the glasses. “So, one last slosh of wine and I’ll slither off.”

“You can’t do that,” Aziraphale blurted out.

“‘S for the best. I better go before I have a chance to- to ruin everything.”

“Stop.” Aziraphale said. “Crowley. I want you to stay.”

The demon’s eyes widened. Aziraphale wasn’t beating round the bush, or resorting to excuses about needing to thwart Crowley. There wasn’t a hint of hesitancy in the way he moved closer, those eyes taking in the sight of Crowley from head to foot like the demon was made of starlight, and there was nothing shy about the way he reached out to him.

“Yeah, sure,” mumbled Crowley, “you say that now, but I’m gonna get to be too much. You’ll see.”

“I know. But I would rather have too much of you, than nothing at all.” Crowley felt those hands, brick-setting, sword-wielding, life-saving, page-turning, cake-making hands, fasten onto his hips and tug him gently closer. Till he and Aziraphale were standing chest-to-chest, or as well as they could with him being slightly taller than the angel.

_(Let me get what I want...)_

“S-social distancing,” Crowley murmured, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale was undeterred. “I think we’ve been keeping far too much of a distance these last six thousand years, haven’t we?”

He was close enough to breathe Crowley’s breath, to count the freckles dusted over his cheeks and the delicate eyelashes that framed those amazing serpent eyes of his, like- like lemons, Aziraphale thought, like limes, maybe? A lifetime of reading and he was still tragically hopeless at metaphors. When it came to Crowley, really, he was hopeless at everything.

“You said you didn’t want to be alone,” Aziraphale said softly. “Neither do I. And I want to take care of you, Crowley. I don’t want you riding this out by yourself.”

“Our own side. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked. But he was already sidling in, cautiously, hips cocking slightly, to close the gap between them. “You’d let me stay?”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t...cast me out?”

“Oh, darling, no.” Gentle hands came up to cradle Crowley’s face.

Crowley shut his eyes. “Would you let me k-kiss you? Literally, it’s- it’s literally all I can think of right now—“

Aziraphale chuckled. “Go on, then.”

It took a second for Crowley to actually muster the courage, but when they pressed against each other it felt familiar and comforting. Not too fast. Not too much. And when they kissed it didn’t feel like a surprise, or something new at all, but rather like something that was right for both of them. Something...well, ineffable, that made Aziraphale’s stomach flutter and Crowley’s heart beat like a jazz drum.

He pulled Aziraphale closer, relishing the feel of him, soft and strong and solid. The gentleness of his hands as they clung to his hips, and then his waist, sliding up his back and leaving traces of flour on black fabric along the way. Aziraphale tasted of sugar and icing and Crowley, who hadn’t cared much for cake until the moment he slithered into Aziraphale’s kitchen, suddenly wanted more. He pushed Aziraphale up against the doorframe, sinking deep into his embrace.

When they parted Crowley was aware of the angel’s hands now tight against his shoulder blades, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. Given the raw hunger Crowley had felt for him just moments earlier, this was a risk. This should have been dangerous, a demon faced directly with his own temptation. This could have ended with him hurting Aziraphale, desperate in his desire, letting himself be hurt in turn, but...

But all that was gone now. Not gone for good, as Crowley was certain the desire would overtake him again (and he very much intended to satisfy it). It was just that, standing here in Aziraphale’s arms, it all seemed _enough_.

He heard Aziraphale sniff.

“Oh nooo, Angel, no crying,” he sighed, reaching up to wipe a tear away. “‘M not leaving you, okay? You could— you could make a moat of holy water around the bookshop, if you like. Keep me in a pentagram and chuck in a packet of crisps every now and then. Actually, forget it,” he said, when Aziraphale laughed through his tears. “I choose not to leave. I’ll stay here for the rest of lockdown.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. No, not just lockdown, Crowley. I mean forever. I- I mean to keep you.” He looked up at him, eyes like a stormy sea, just as grey and just as wet. “Would that be quite all right? Would you let me?”

Crowley’s gaze softened. He looked like he was about to fall apart. “You’re sure about this?” he said. “About me?”

“Of course I am,” said Aziraphale. His voice was a balm to an ache that Crowley had long ignored was there. “Oh, my dear, you’re not just my best friend, you know that? You’re my whole family.”

Crowley just groaned, certain that his heart had melted into a goopy mess. He buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and felt a light kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry,” the angel soothed, “I know we’ll have our little tiffs and annoyances, but see what else we have? We raised a child, well, technically; we averted the Apocalypse, or contributed to its aversion...and we had all those years of the Arrangement. We built something strong,” he said softly, “and I quite believe in that.”

Crowley kissed him again, which Aziraphale thought meant that he should stop talking, but he was certain the demon had been listening to him. And maybe there were more tears, when the kiss ended. But it wasn’t nearly so bad when there was someone around to wipe them away for you.

Eventually, as the smell of freshly-baked cake filled the kitchen, Aziraphale let go of Crowley and took his hand.

“Shall I interest you in yet another slice of cake?”

Crowley smiled, and shrugged. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out a lot longer than I intended, but sometimes you just gotta keep going on a story until you reach the right place for it to end ^—^ 
> 
> A few songs influenced the emotions in this fic:
> 
> [Too Much is Never Enough ](https://open.spotify.com/track/58ReVGi4ebvbKyKJ1wvYV0?si=8EIJf-OHTDmarSsbGmMCOw) Florence + The Machine
> 
> [The Bones ](https://open.spotify.com/track/1yTTMcUhL7rtz08Dsgb7Qb?si=IaU43Nt0RBmUbHhtqFcZ0w) Maren Morris ft. Hozier
> 
> And of course [Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want](https://open.spotify.com/track/6BrMEbPSSj55nQhkgf6DnE?si=08kPnGOzQl2J1ELw_WONpQ)  
> The Smiths


End file.
